


Every Little Scorch Mark

by CallieB



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Origin Story, Recovery, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 03:13:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16276730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallieB/pseuds/CallieB
Summary: At first, the only thing he could remember was pain. He had been young and carefree, and then he wasn’t; he was full of a terrifying darkness, a grotesque ugliness that spilled out of him like some viscous oily liquid that demanded everything of him except his life. His worthless, foul life. He remembers the blood, dripping from his teeth, splashed down his neck and across his chest, so much blood, like a sacrifice, or a pantomime. So much blood.Blood, and death. Bodies, strewn around him, open and ripped so that no feature is distinguishable. People he killed.Requested by the lovelyFireAngel5683who asked for Raphael struggling to cope with becoming a vampire and his own internal hatred with the support of father-figure Magnus.





	Every Little Scorch Mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FireAngel5683](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireAngel5683/gifts).



> What a great prompt - I got completely lost in it! Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Every day a burn. A moment, out in the light, and it sizzles on his skin, blisters him. He doesn’t dare step out fully - he’s too much the coward, and he hates himself for it. Every morning as the dawn breaks, he tells himself that this will be the day, that he’ll go outside, let the sunlight burn him until he’s expunged from this world. Every morning, he stretches a shaking hand outside, holds it in the sun for as long as he can bear the excruciating pain.

And every morning, he retreats back into his rundown shack, pitifully afraid of the agony and of death, and curses himself until evening comes again.

At first, the only thing he could remember was pain. He had been young and carefree, and then he wasn’t; he was full of a terrifying darkness, a grotesque ugliness that spilled out of him like some viscous oily liquid that demanded everything of him except his life. His worthless, foul life. He remembers the blood, dripping from his teeth, splashed down his neck and across his chest, so much blood, like a sacrifice, or a pantomime. So much blood. 

Blood, and death. Bodies, strewn around him, open and ripped so that no feature is distinguishable. People he killed. 

He tries. He tries to resist, tries not to let the craving take over him, but it changes him. He’s not himself. The darkness fills him up, and he forgets everything except how much he needs it, how empty he is without it. And then it’s like he wakes up, and it’s another cycle of terror and blood and death and the torture of holding out as long as he can before it starts again.

He can’t remember how long it’s gone on for. It was June 1953 when he last had memories,  _ real _ memories, but he has no idea if it’s been weeks, months or more than a year since then. Everything’s a blur, a nightmare haze of death and agony and loathing, marked only by the daily burns, the scourging of his flesh, day by day.

That’s how Magnus finds him.

People are a no go for Raphael, generally speaking; the ones he comes across tend to wind up dead, and although sometimes - a lot of the time - he can’t help it, seeks them out, he does  _ try  _ to stick to wild animals during the rare times he has any sort of control.

If he sees someone, though… If a person is foolish enough to wander this far into the forest, happening to cross Raphael’s path…

It’s like being drunk, or at least, it bears a slight resemblance to the one fuzzy memory Raphael has of being drunk, before. He barely remembers it until it’s all over.

He dreads it, in his lucid moments.

It’s dusk, the last remaining droplets of poisonous daylight fading away, and Raphael stumbles out of his shack just to feel the breeze on his skin. He’s filthy, bloodstained, disgusted with himself, but sometimes the touch of the wind makes him feel like a person again. Just for a moment or two. 

That’s when he sees the man standing a few feet away, under the twisted trees surrounding the hut, and his heart sinks even as his fangs start to slide out. Blood. It always comes to blood. They can’t escape him anymore; he’s an animal, fast and strong and more powerful than anything else that wanders these woods.

The man starts walking towards him. He’s got a Sinatra kind of look to him, wearing a pinstriped three-piece with spats and a pocketwatch and a big broad-rimmed hat on his dark swarthy head. He has his hands tucked into his pockets as though he hasn’t a care in the world, which seems odd, given that Raphael must be looking pretty wild right now. 

“Run,” Raphael croaks. It’s half-hearted at best, because he’ll always be able to catch up, but it’s as though the last vestiges of his humanity are begging him to try. He hasn’t spoken more than seven or eight words since he’s been out here.

The man takes another step forward. “Raphael Santiago?” he says. His voice is delicate, smooth, but with an odd confidence behind it. Raphael moans at the sound of his own name; it’s been a long time since he’s heard someone use it. His mother used to say it, his full name, just like that, when she was pretending to be angry with him. She’d stand in the kitchen, hands on her slim hips, and just say his name.  _ Raphael Santiago!  _ _ Dios mío, serás mi muerte… _

The death of her. That’s one thing he refuses to be. 

“Raphael.” That voice doesn’t belong to his mother. Raphael is brought back to the present moment in a horrible flood of reality. He squints through the trees at the approaching man. Why doesn’t he run from the wildman in the woods? And how does he know Raphael’s name?

He lurches forward, his steps unsteady. “Who are you?” he says hoarsely.

The man takes another step forward. He’s slender, even beneath his loose clothing, and it looks as though he might be wearing kohl around his eyes. Raphael frowns; it suits him, which it really shouldn’t. The man says, calmly: “My name is Magnus Bane. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Raphael coughs out a laugh. “You couldn’t hurt me.” For some reason, the bloodlust that usually overtakes him when he sees another person isn’t too strong. He’s still able to control himself, to formulate sentences.

Magnus Bane takes the last remaining steps to close the distance between him. He’s smiling, which is disconcerting; Raphael knows how intimidating he looks. But Magnus Bane doesn’t seem frightened at all, which either makes him incredibly stupid, or…

“I know what you are,” Bane says.

For several moments, Raphael doesn’t say anything at all. He’s just frozen, his mouth open, staring at Magnus Bane, because what does that mean? Raphael doesn’t even know what he is. He’s a creature, he kills - he kills people, he drinks their blood and enjoys the taste--

“Mierda,” he whispers. 

“Raphael, it’s alright,” Bane says. He’s holding out his hands. “I can help you.”

“You can’t help me,” Raphael says. He swallows, feels the darkness rising up inside him. “I’m cursed.”

Bane lowers his hands. “You’re not cursed,” he says. “You’re a vampire.”

“The same thing,” Raphael whispers. “It’s the same thing.”

There’s a stark silence between them. Bane says, quietly: “Raphael, your mother asked me to find you.”

It’s like a sledgehammer to his chest, like the dried-up empty shell that his heart has become is cracking into pieces, leaving only dust in their wake. His mother. Tiny, fiery, not afraid of anything. He’s left her behind, left her to think that he’s dead. Resigned himself to the terrible understanding that he’ll never see her again. And now… now she’s looking for him?

“Who are you?” he says again. His mother knows the legend he was seeking out when he came to this place. She would never send an ordinary man to look for him.

A ghost of a smile appears on Bane’s face. “I’m a warlock,” he says. For a moment, his eyes flash yellow, and Raphael takes a step back. Bane goes on: “I have magic. That’s why you’re not experiencing bloodlust around me. Vampires don’t tend to be… turned on by other Downworlders.”

“Down...Downworlders?” Raphael repeats, frowning.

“Creatures that have both human and demon blood,” Bane says.

Raphael tries to cross himself, is rewarded with a stab of pain and the memory that he can’t. “I’m no demon,” he hisses. He bites his lip, and feels a single tear roll down his cheek. He knows he’s a monster. 

“It’s not what you think,” Bane says. “It’s just a word.”

Raphael nods. “Demon,” he says thickly.

“The bloodlust can be controlled,” Bane tells him. “I promise you, I can help you.”

“Yes,” Raphael says. He swallows. “Every day, I try to walk into the sunlight, so that I can be cleansed.”

Bane is watching him. “That would kill you,” he says softly.

Raphael nods. “Yes,” he says again. “But every day, I prove myself a coward. Now you’ve come to be my salvation.” He can feel it, can feel the power Magnus Bane wields. He’s been sent to Raphael by his mother, who loves him. “You can do it,” he says. “Kill me.”

Bane’s eyes widen in alarm. “No,” he says swiftly, “Raphael, no, I’m not here to kill you. That’s not why your mother sent me to find you.”

“Then why?” Raphael says despairingly.

Slowly, Bane reaches out a hand, and Raphael watches as it touches his arm. He closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of having another person touch him. No one has touched him in so long. “I’m here to save you,” Bane says softly.

Raphael doesn’t believe him. Can’t believe him. But somehow he lets Bane guide him through the trees, away from the rundown hut where he’s been spending his nights. Every footstep takes him further away from the nightmare, away from the bodies and the dried blood and the smell of death, although he still carries the darkness inside him. He can feel it, travelling with him.

Bane has a shiny Buick parked at the edge of the forest, gleaming scarlet, newer than any car Raphael’s ever been in before. He’s suddenly acutely aware of the grime coating his skin, the flakes of dried blood that rustle onto the ground with every step he takes. He’s going to get the car filthy.

Bane must notice his hesitation. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice soft and reassuring, so Raphael decides not to. When Bane opens the passenger door, he gets in without hesitation.

The air conditioning feels good on his face. He tips his head back against his seat, lets his eyes close. It’s been so long since he’s really slept. Bane says something, a small smile on his face as he pulls away, but Raphael doesn’t hear him. He’s already out.

Bane wakes him up when they’ve arrived at wherever it is they’re going. Raphael blinks, surprised by how deeply he slept, how dreamless his slumber was. He looks out of the window. They’re parked outside a beautiful Pueblo Revival… well, mansion is the best word for it. It appears to be in the middle of nowhere, the dusty road stretching long and empty in both directions. Raphael gets out of the car slowly, looking up at the house. It’s a warm terracotta colour, the walls curved and smooth. It’s a little like a sepia photograph his mother keeps on her bedside table, of her parents standing outside their first home together back in Mexico.

“Like it?” Bane, who must be a little psychic, asks. Raphael can only nod.

It’s as lovely inside the house as it is outside. Raphael feels dazed as Bane leads him through a brightly lit kitchen, with clay tiles beneath his feet and bunches of flowers on every available surface. He doesn’t really take in the furnishings, except to recognise that they must be extremely expensive. Whoever Magnus Bane is, he’s rich. Raphael wonders, with a faint sense of anxiety, how on Earth his mother ever managed to hire him.

Bane takes him up a sweeping staircase and straight to a magnificent bathroom. It’s fitted in green and orange, with an enormous bathtub half sunken into the floor. With a sideways glance at him, Bane snaps his fingers.

The tub instantly fills with steaming, bubbly water. Raphael’s mouth drops open.

“The bloodlust will pass,” Bane says gently. “I’ll teach you control. You will live again, Raphael.”

Raphael’s mouth opens and closes. “I’ve been living,” he croaks. “That’s the problem.”

Bane shakes his head. “You’ve been  _ surviving _ ,” he corrects. He motions towards the bath. “Wash it away, Raphael. I’ll leave clothes outside the door.”

For a while after Bane leaves, Raphael just looks at the bath. It’s certainly inviting, making him all the more aware of just how foul he really is, with the dirt encrusted on his body and rank clothes. It feels like he doesn’t deserve the cleanness of the water, like it’s too pure for the blackness inside him. He’s a monster. A demon.

Even Magnus Bane said the same thing.

But Bane also said that he’s a… what was the word? A  _ Downworlder _ . He said that they both are. Bane doesn’t seem like a demon. He seems like a gentleman. He said that he would teach Raphael to control his need for blood.

He strips off his clothes. They’re basically just rags at this point, stiff with grime and blood when he drops them to the floor. Gingerly, he climbs into the bath, eyes shutting involuntarily as the hot water embraces his skin. His body is raw, his muscles tense, but it feels good to be clean.

He must fall asleep again in the bath, because when he opens his eyes again, there’s a rim of sunlight around the edges of the lace curtains at the window. There’s definitely magic at work, because the bath is still steaming and hot, as much as it was when he first clambered into it; Raphael doesn’t really know how to feel about that. Magic, he’s always been taught, is the Devil’s work, but then, what is he now if not an agent of Satan? 

Besides, he needs it hot, because his body is still dirty. He takes a washcloth from the edge of the tub, rubbing soap onto it and scrubbing his chest. He sloughs the grime from his skin, taking grim satisfaction in watching the water muddy around him as he rinses it all away.

“Raphael?” Bane’s voice is just slightly concerned, coming from the other side of the bathroom door. Raphael stands hastily, slipping in his efforts to get out of the bath speedily.

“I’m coming!” he calls out, and for a moment he’s almost back home, being called to dinner by his mother.

The thought of dinner reminds him that he hasn’t fed for several days now; although he’s not quite as desperate yet as he knows he has the potential to be, the thirst is still beginning to burn his throat. He gulps, remembering that Bane has promised to teach him to control it. He can’t really believe it; the memories of his teeth sinking into the flesh of those he’s killed are far stronger.

He does feel better when he clambers out of the bathtub, water dripping from his body. Some of the aches and pains in his muscles have relaxed involuntarily, and for the first time, he can look down at himself without seeing blood and dirt. He dries himself shakily, dressing in the soft linen clothes that Bane has left just outside the bathroom door. 

When he finally emerges from the room, Bane is waiting in the wide hallway above the staircase. He’s wearing a wine-coloured robe over soft grey pyjamas, and he’s holding something red and oblong in his hands.

Raphael feels his nose twitching. 

“Is that blood?” he says. Bane nods, holding out the packet. Raphael takes it; it’s a plastic container, squashy in his hands.

“There’s an opening at the top,” Bane says. It’s as much encouragement as Raphael needs. He can already feel his teeth elongating at the scent of the blood, rich and fragrant. He brings the packet to his lips, knocking the cap off the small tube at one end of it.

Bane watches him drinking, a small smile on his face. The need for the blood is overwhelming, and Raphael sucks desperately at the plastic. He’s trying not to spill any, partly because he doesn’t want to lose a drop, and partly because he’s so clean. The tube helps him to drink in a more orderly fashion, far more than drinking blood from someone he’s just murdered.

He shudders.

The blood bag leaves him feeling full and sated, the way he usually does after a meal. He lowers the packet from his mouth, wiping away the last droplets of blood. “Thank you,” he says.

Bane takes the empty bag from him. He says, slowly: “Raphael…”

There’s a silence. Bane sighs, and gestures for Raphael to follow him.

He’s taken to an enormous bedroom, bigger than the entire hut he was squatting in out in the woods. Raphael’s mother would probably faint at the sight of the bed, all draped in soft white curtains, with flowers on each bedside table and a big window looking out onto a balcony. It’s dark outside, but the sky is lit up with stars, and the moon bathes the room in dusky light.

“This is your room,” Bane says. The words sound ridiculous to Raphael, as if it can be possible that such a lovely space could be his. He just stares blankly at Bane. Bane smiles, although the gesture is a little wan. “It’s going to be a long road,” he says gently. “But you’ll get your life back.”

Raphael shakes his head. “I have no life,” he says.

“You do,” Bane answers. “It’s there. You’ll find it.” He touches Raphael’s shoulder. “I promise.”

*

“Dios,” Magnus says encouragingly. He waits, taking a sip of his drink. It’s a Sidecar, a slice of orange balanced against the edge of the glass; one of the many, many things Raphael is learning from Magnus Bane is how to make a variety of cocktails. 

Raphael closes his eyes, resisting the urge to swallow the remainder of his own Singapore Sling in one. He croaks: “Di... _ Dios _ .”

Magnus lifts his glass. “You see, Raphael,” he says. “You  _ can  _ do it.”

“Dios,” Raphael repeats, ignoring the burn in the back of his throat that tries to prevent him from saying it. “Dios.”

It’s been the hardest one. He can, oddly enough, say it quite easily in English; Magnus thinks that it’s because Spanish is the language Raphael’s religious beliefs are most associated with. He’s practised repeating every religious word he can think of, forcing them out through gritted teeth and a raging headache while Magnus strokes his shoulder and presses cold flannels to the back of his neck. He’s held a cross in his hands for minutes, hours at a time, breathing through the pain of it.

“Raphael,” Magnus says quietly. “You’re in a different place now.”

Raphael looks up sharply. He knows what Magnus is about to suggest. It won’t be the first time he’s said it, and it won’t be the last time Raphael refuses to even consider it. “No,” he says flatly. He reaches for his Singapore Sling. It’s bright red, the way a Singapore Sling is supposed to be, but it’s not just cherry liqueur.

When he puts the empty glass back down, hand trembling, his lips are stained red.

“She’s been asking about you,” Magnus presses. He’s been watching Raphael drink, his eyes bright and knowing. “She loves you.”

“I’m not her son anymore,” Raphael says. He blinks the tears out of his eyes. “I’m a monster.”

There’s a silence in the room. For a moment, Raphael allows himself to imagine seeing his mother again, imagines the look on her lined face as she sees him again. She’ll be so happy - she’ll cry, perhaps, and pull Raphael into her skinny arms. She didn’t want him to go and seek out the  _ sanguijuela _ . She will have missed him so much.

Then he thinks about seeing her.  _ Really _ thinks about it. Thinks about the scent of her blood in the air, warm and inviting. His body reacts even to the thought, his teeth elongating without his permission inside his mouth. If he can’t control it now, he won’t be able to control it in front of her. She’ll see him as he is.

“I can never see her,” he says huskily.

Magnus looks at him consideringly. Frowning, he sets down his glass. “You know very little about the life of a Downworlder,” he says. Not for the first time, Raphael finds himself relaxing at the soft, silky tones of Magnus’ voice. Magnus is right; all he really knows about the world of half-demons is that there are a variety of different kinds, and that Magnus sometimes disappears elsewhere to meet with others.

The truth is, he hasn’t wanted to find out. Has no interest in any other monsters.

He says, haltingly: “No.”

Magnus simply nods. “You know that I am a warlock,” he goes on. “A warlock is a particularly powerful being.” He pauses. “We are rare.”

Raphael wets his lips. “Are… Are vampires rare?”

“Rarer than mundanes,” Magnus answers with a smile. “In terms of other Downworlders… No rarer than werewolves, but less common than the fey. You are made, rather than born.”

Raphael considers this. “I don’t understand,” he says at last. “Why would anyone inflict…  _ this _ , on another?” He gestures a little fitfully towards himself.

“Many see it as a gift,” Magnus says. “You have, after all, improved strength, and speed.” He hesitates. “You have the gift of immortality.”

Raphael nods. Magnus has already explained this to him. “I won’t die,” he says. “I won’t age. I’ll live youthful and lonely forever.”

Magnus’ eyes are unbearably sympathetic. “Perhaps not so lonely,” he says. “Immortality is something most Downworlders have in common. When you’re ready, I can introduce you to others.”

“Is that why some of my kind… turn others?” Raphael asks. He can see why you might. He’s lonely now, and he’s only been a vampire a few months. After  _ years _ of watching family and friends dying, he can understand the impulse to keep some of them with you.

“Yes,” Magnus says. “Sometimes.”

Raphael swallows.

Magnus coughs delicately. “Vampires cannot have children,” he says. This isn’t news either; over the last few weeks, he’s had a full education about his new species. There are many things about vampirism that fill him with despair, but oddly enough, this isn’t one of them. He’s never really seen himself as a father. Magnus goes on: “This is something else you have in common with warlocks.”

Raphael looks curiously at Magnus. It’s not something that bothers him, but Magnus… He can see what an excellent father Magnus would make. He’s gentle, and kind, and wise. Everything a father ought to be - and everything Raphael’s father wasn’t. Magnus has been alive for hundreds of years. He must have seen more life passing him by than Raphael can possibly imagine, and yet in all that time, he’s never been able to create it.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely.

“I’ve made my peace with it,” Magnus says, waving a dismissive hand. There’s a tight pinch of pain around his eyes, however, that he can’t quite hide. He says: “Raphael, I may not be a parent, but I have seen children grow and age and die for decades. I have lost countless friends, lovers, family…”

Suddenly, without quite knowing why, Raphael finds himself close to tears. He bites his lip. “I…”

Magnus waves his hand again. “I’m not telling you this to upset you,” he says gently. “But life is short. Not for us, but for those we love. Those we care about.” He pauses. “When you have been alive as long as I have, it passes in the blink of an eye. Years - decades - a  _ lifetime _ does not feel enough to share with someone, when at the end of it they are dead and you are still young and facing centuries without them.”

There’s a great, yawning hopelessness somewhere beyond Magnus’ words, and Raphael is teetering on the edge of it. He meets Magnus’ eyes, desperate not to fall into the void. “Then what’s the point?” he whispers.

“The point,” Magnus says firmly, “is that we make the most of the lifetimes we are given. I have loved, and lost, and lost again. I will fall in love again, and when I do, I will know from the start that I will lose them. But that does not prevent me from enjoying the short time I have with them.”

Silence falls, and Raphael swallows, his mouth dry and his stomach hollow. He has an endless lifetime stretched out ahead of him, but his mother…

“I’ll see her,” he says. “I’ll see her.”

Magnus smiles.

Later, Raphael thinks that it was perhaps a low blow for Magnus to manipulate him like this. It doesn’t make him  _ wrong _ , but it wasn’t a nice way to go about it. He should be angry, but he knows that nothing else would have worked. He remembers, distantly, that this is what friends do. Sometimes they have to sink a little lower than they should to help each other.

He supposes that this means that he and Magnus are friends now.

It doesn’t make it any easier to contemplate seeing his mother. He wants to, so badly that it burns his insides almost as much as the thirst for blood, but he’s more afraid than he’s ever been of anything. The only thing that makes it possible is Magnus.

He approaches him later in the afternoon, his heart thumping audibly in the quiet of the peaceful house. Magnus is sat by the window, his eyes closed in the face of the sunshine that Raphael can’t touch. He feels a thud of jealousy in his chest.

“If… If I lose control,” he starts, and then stops, his breath hitching. Magnus opens his eyes, a sleepy smile on his face.

“I will protect your mother, Raphael,” he says, sounding so sure that for a second Raphael actually feels something approaching hope. “You have nothing to fear.”

*

His house looks the same as it did the last time he was here. It’s nothing compared to the mansion he’s been staying in with Magnus, just a small two-up, two-down that leans just slightly to one side, but it’s  _ home _ , and somewhere inside it is Raphael’s mother.

“Your sister is staying with a friend,” Magnus says, looking sideways at him. He’s dressed more formally today than Raphael has seen him since he arrived at the house, with braces underneath his oversized jacket and a sharp trilby tilted at an angle on his head.

Raphael nods jerkily. “I’m glad,” he says, and it’s true. He’s not sure he could handle seeing his mother and sister together.

He redirects his attention to the front of the house. Somewhere inside, his mother is waiting for him. She’s probably made some dinner - she always does when she’s nervous, and the fact that he’s family will mean it’ll be an enormous spread. He’s tried eating regular food since he was turned, but he can’t stomach it. He has no idea how he’s going to keep it down.

The door opens. It feels like it’s impossibly slow; Raphael’s heart is pounding. He casts a quick, panicked look at Magnus, who smiles encouragingly.

“Raphael?”

His mother has her hands clasped in front of her, thin bony fingers interlocked and trembling. The sun is in her eyes, but Raphael can see that she’s anxious. There’s just the faintest hint of a smile on her lips, though, and it gives him the tiniest leap of hope.

He takes a step forward. “Mamá,” he whispers.

His mother brings a shaking hand to her mouth. “ _ Mi pequeño _ ,” she murmurs. “Oh, Raphael, mi pequeño…”

There’s a moment, and then suddenly she’s right in front of him, her little arms winding around his neck. She feels soft, and warm, and so human. Raphael can feel tears building, but he forces them back. His mother is tiny, even compared to him - he’s never been the tallest or the largest of his brothers - but in the face of her embrace he feels small. Loved.

“ _ Lo siento _ ,” he says into her neck. “Lo siento mucho, mamá, lo siento…”

She pulls back a little, her hand cupping his face. “No,  _ hijo _ , none of that, now,” she says. She’s smiling, even though her lower lip is trembling. “Nothing to apologise for, my Rafi.”

“Shall we go inside?” Magnus says, undoubtedly to cover for Raphael’s tortured expression.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Guadalupe says distractedly, her hand still on his face. “Inside.” She beams at Raphael. “I have food for you, hijo.”

Raphael feels his heart drop to his stomach, but he manages to school his face into a pleased expression. He’s practiced so many things with Magnus - holding a cross, saying as many religious words as he can think of - but he hasn’t yet managed a meal without throwing up. Magnus says it takes time.

He follows his mother into the little house, Magnus close behind him. It feels like years since he’s been here, even though it can’t really be longer than a few months. It’s spotlessly clean inside; Guadalupe has always been tidy, but she’s obviously been preparing for his arrival, as though he might turn up his nose if he sees any dirt on her carpet.

That’s when he smells it. 

It’s blood. Fresh blood, and nearby. It’s not his mother; he’s curiously unaffected by her scent, as though his love for her overwhelms his natural instincts. It’s a stronger smell than that anyway, indicating that it’s not another person. It’s just blood.

His head whips around to face his mother.

She’s standing by the coffee table in the living room, smiling at him. And in one hand she has a large blue plastic cup. It’s that that he can smell. She’s literally holding a cup of blood. 

She says, beaming: “You see, Rafi? I have food for you!”

Raphael doesn’t understand. He  _ can’t  _ understand. He looks wildly at Magnus, and then back at his mother, holding the blood in her hand.

“Mamá?” he says, his voice strangled.

“I explained your diet to your mother,” Magnus interjects. Guadalupe is nodding slowly, her face suddenly serious. “I know you were concerned about eating in front of her.”

“Raphael,” his mother says quietly. “Rafi, mi pequeño, I love you. Whatever you need, it is yours.”

He takes one, halting step forward. It’s difficult to concentrate, with the blood so fresh and right there, but… “I’m a monster, mamá,” he gets out, his throat constricted. He can’t, he  _ won’t  _ cry, not in front of Magnus, but it’s a close thing.

Guadalupe glances at Magnus. He says quietly: “There’s nothing monstrous about what you are, Raphael,” but he’s looking at her. Raphael gets it. He’s overstating it, pulling Raphael’s mother on-side so that she doesn’t hate him. 

He can’t let it slide. He gestures jerkily towards the cup his mother is holding, his limbs shaking. “I drink blood,” he says. “I want… I want it. I’ve killed.”

“Rafi…” his mother breathes.

“I’ve killed,” he says again. “I’m a monster.”

Slowly, Guadalupe puts down the cup of blood. Raphael can’t help it; his eyes track the movement. But when she moves towards him, it’s her he looks at. His mother. His family. 

Her hands cup his face. He’s trembling, but she’s perfectly steady as she smiles up at him. She says softly: “What’s so wrong about a monster, anyway?”

*

Magnus says very little on the way back to the house, although every so often he glances at Raphael with the slightest smile on his face. Raphael can’t help but smile back, although he can feel tears building behind his eyes as well. It’s dark out - it has to be, of course - and the moon is almost completely covered by clouds. Almost, but not completely - there’s just the tiniest sliver of light peeping through them, illuminating Magnus’ face behind the steering wheel of the car.

“I can’t… stay there,” Raphael says hesitantly. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they left Guadalupe behind. 

“Not yet,” Magnus agrees easily.

Raphael bites his bottom lip. He’d drunk the blood, and his mother still hadn’t turned him aside. She had seemed so sure, so completely certain, not a shred of doubt in her eyes as she looked at him and held his hands. He says: “She should hate me.”

“She’s your mother,” Magnus says. “She loves you.”

“Do you think I’ll ever have enough… control… to see her for longer?” Raphael asks. “To… stay?”

Magnus gives him another warm smile. “I have no doubt, Raphael,” he says gently.

He doesn’t go to sleep that night. Watches the sunrise drift slowly into the sky, an explosion of scarlet and pink and gold. He knows Magnus is somewhere in the house, almost certainly awake - he almost never seems to sleep - but Raphael is in his bedroom alone. 

He watches the sky, watches the sun. Thinks about his mother.

Slowly, he walks towards the double doors that lead out onto his balcony. They’re not locked; Magnus has already explained that he doesn’t need anything more than magic to protect them here in the mansion. Just a simple push, and they open.

Just a step would take him out into the sunshine. But he’s always been too cowardly to take it. Instead, Raphael looks down at his hand. It wouldn’t take nearly so much courage to reach out, to be burnt, as he has every day since he became what he is.

Every day a burn. He’s lived like that for so long now. Let the sunlight scorch his skin, endured the pain because he feels he deserves it. Because he’s a monster.

Magnus has always told him he’s not a monster. He’s a Downworlder. It’s not meant much; Magnus is the only other Downworlder Raphael knows, and Raphael is nothing like Magnus. He’s never seen Magnus surrounded by the bodies of people he’s killed, covered in their blood. Magnus is no monster.

But his mother… His mother’s words meant more. She knows what he is. She hasn’t tried to pretend he’s anything less than monstrous.

She loves him anyway.

Raphael looks at his hand, still trembling slightly in the shadows of his room. He looks out, at the sunlight just a few inches away. 

He reaches out. But not to the sun. To the door, to close it.

As he retreats back to the safety of his beautiful bedroom, he thinks about seeing his mother again. Maybe even his sister.

He smiles.


End file.
